EMERGENCY POST of TRUTH
--rb, Waterville, Maine
anytime • anywhere
For "Sticks and Rocks and Stars"
fkn h0tt. it'd be nicer if you liked me.
I just sent in cover art for Proclivities, my grind poetry thing that Dan and I will eventually xerox-publish as Cada 2. Speaking of images, I have amassed over 4,000 digital photographs over the past three years. 14-17 of them are probably Art, and I will have to get those up on the main site here. Also, IF YOU HAVE ACCESS TO A XEROX MACHINE AND WOULD LIKE TO BE PART OF A WRITTEN ART EXCHANGE COLLECTIVE THING, FUCKING SAY SO NOW!
For the next 36 hours I will be doing publishing sales gruntwork, blasting Abbey Road in my big dork headphones, and living for my next free moment.
IUD.SIS.STAY IN SCHOOL.CAUSE IT’S THE BEST.
The mustachioed, three hundred pound gay man in front of me was called Gomez. I didn't catch the names of the makeshift male couples making out against the walls. A framed poster of the naked, sock-cocked Red Hot Chili Peppers came crashing to the floor.
Gomez and I were talking about a chemistry course we'd taken together our freshman year. He licked the beer foam from his lower lip while he adjusted his glasses and listened. I was wearing nothing but black boxers. Gomez covered his man breasts with a white undershirt that barely covered his briefs.
Then, Gomez grabbed my bare nipple. He told me I was obscenely hot. I told him I was flattered. He put his finger to his lip and bit it.
I thought to myself there's something endearing about a ghoulishly effeminate man with no hang-ups. I excused myself and continued dancing suggestively with my housemates.
On the dance floor, hands and fingers ran across my back and over my stomach. A thumb and middle finger combination tried to remove my underwear. The cute Japanese girl from my hall laid her head on my shoulder, but she did that for everyone.
Gomez worked his way back over. 'Chris the Pecs' was his little nickname for me. He tried to make me jealous by saying Scott was huge. Then, he just touched my bare breast again. He apologized and said he just couldn't resist.
At the end of the night, he invited me to a foam party on the 17th. What a sweetheart, I thought. At least he played the game.
I walked home arm-in-arm with my housemates. We sang about women while Drew stayed behind and banged some hot little Indian number.
If only straight women were so normal.
It was a 4pm dinner affair at Cascarino’s. Post-bruschetta, father turned to me and asked what courses I’d registered for. I rattled off what I could remember.
Without pausing, father jumped right back in. “So, what are you gonna do for a job after college? I mean, we’re spending a lot of money on tuition, you know.”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe magazines. Maybe publishing. I need to get an internship next summer and feel it out. That’s not my goal for college though, getting a job.”
He chuckled, “So, what are your goals then?”
“To find out what I’m interested in—which I’ve done—and to learn as much as I can.”
He picked at the back of his head with his eyes fixed on the table. “Well, I’d say that’s a pretty bad goal.”
Dinner ended at five with a sub-standard tip.
most people choose poorly.
so we only tried dating after the incident, and that was fine: you were purty and had an honors degree from a decent college. after a week you called me sobbing and said that you wanted to marry your ex and then you stopped calling. and then you fucked some kid for two weeks straight, moved home, came back to new york to see me after another two weeks. only you made out with my friend in his bed before you saw me. and then you cried to me about it, and then you went on vacation with your family. while you were on vacation in an unnamed latinamerican country you fucked a fat 31-yr-old who bought you cocaine. then you told me about that too, but at least you paid for dinner. in the meantime you made a weekend jaunt to visit the aforementioned ex at his institution of higher learning and tried to patch things up. somewhere around then you fucked a guy whose name you didn't know at a party at an 'economy' hotel, and someone filmed you but you don't know who. and then you went out with a much older groundskeeper who picked you up at a bar, and you let him molest you in his car. then you chain blew a dude who came back from the service as well as some other male suburban nightmare--in the same room at the same time. while you were telling me about that over dinner you were picked up by an immigrant restaurant worker (while i was taking a piss!). now you have settled down, over the course of the past six days, with one of your co-workers. how do i know this? because you told me. please refrain from telling me any more; i thirst for the opportunity to make something up. also i am trying not to let this discolor my discolored perception of people.
missed a good chance to drive into the car in front of me on route 16 this morning, after a branch fell on the roadway. thanks, anti-lock braking. the 'parkways' in mass. are funny: they all intersect at stoplights instead of overpasses and ramps. i spent 20 minutes at the same light this morning. masachusetts is dumb; even the four outer boroughs operating in their generic new york obscurity are more efficient.
the moonlight i spent in diesel cafe, where i had a big old lemonade made for me. i flip-flopped down to davis and brought fante finally. since i passed out reading charles bukowski's suprisingly literate, 2-page intro to fante last night, i figured i really owed tonight to ask the dust's actual author. three chapters: a young writer doing the writing about writing thing. a fictionalized journal? an idealist portrait of the american starving artist (in america we only have starving artists)? drunk old buk was right about the passion and the flow in fante. i giggled and smiled and sighed and thought about him and me and us. fante went to a jesuit high school with the same name as mine but in colorado--maybe it's an all-boys thing. at any rate i remembered i am waiting for a cd by 70s funk drummer hamilton bohannon (who??) to arrive in the mail and it didn't come today. more obscure, more extinct. maybe i will take my name off this blog and call it totally endangered.
on the way home i found a quarter in the quiet quiet street stamped for mississippi the magnolia state. i said maybe things will get better now and put it in my left pocket. i usually put change in my right pocket.
a service of rbellinger.com
today's car cds: rhcp, mother's milk. hound dog taylor, natural boogie. outkast, speakerboxxx.
single of the day: the commodores, "young girls are my weakness"
P.S. Looks like this weekend is over...fuck.
currently obsessed with: 70s brooklyn soul/disco, by native new yorker bands like the crown heights affair and b.t. express (both named after brooklyn--wonder what my queens contributed). i'm backed way into an even deeper corner of obscurity now. i'm dancing like my father did. i'm becoming extinct.